It's been a couple years, Gents.
Time to freshen things before my #1 makes it's way up. Darling Bloom 6.
Just because I've been playing catch with myself the last couple forays doesn't mean I prefer it.
Bloom Tease...on the left...may it fare well.
January 31, 2006
January 26, 2006
Now Bring Me that Horizon...
I’m amused at how tangled things have become. Instead of writing about my battles in the game of Hollywood, I hitch. I hesitate as if THAT were my soft spot. On the flip side, my reservations in writing about my life have whittled to almost nothing. It’s more than a bit troubling…
I got a call yesterday. When I hung up, I felt ill…even if it was only for a moment.
In terms of my career, the career I re-located my ass out here for…I really only have two things on my plate. In case you need to be brought up to speed…
1. Wrapping a Script.
2. Swapping jabs with Mickey Mouse house.
That’s it. For the time being, my personal and professional directions are mapped out and tidy. You could say I’m simplifying things…that I need to broaden my perspective. I disagree. Things are good. Things are perfect.
But the call was from Disney. If you’ve been reading, the “girl” I’ve been referring is an exec from the studio. I know it’s difficult to sift. In between the banished ex girlfriends I foolishly re-fall for, the Philippine call girls and my 8-12 hour crushes…the “she” droppings can be a bit much. My separation is the knowledge that this is the one breaking me in.
By now, we have a good repore. Good enough where she calls…or, at least has her assistant call to say they filled MY POSITION. It was the position I was supposed to pitch for “In the New Year.” What’s the date today? January 26th. I had an opportunity that 10,000 people in this town would cut their wrists for…and I let it roll off my back. I flaked…sort of. And I feel a slight awful for it.
This is a town full of cold shoulders…the most locked down industry in the world. There are millions of “wannabes” and only a handful of “ares.” It’s your run of the mill power struggle scenario. Simply swap variables. Vanity for genocide. Narcotic driven economy for…actually, that works on both fronts. As I was saying, those holding power want to keep it. AND, those that have it remember how many times they had to break, mend and re-break their backs to get it.
I don’t understand why they called, again. Or…why they’re so encouraging, again. “Come June, you’ll have a foot up.” It’s not like they owe me anything, again. To them, I should be a nobody (though you and I know considerably better). Then again, she read my 1st(4th) script and said she and another executive really liked it. Hence, my meeting/our relationship. For some reason, I never believed her.
At the very least, if you were curious as to why I wanted to land this thing, your question should be answered. There’s heart there. If anything gets me…that’s it.
And yet the other side of my head knows I’d be better off on my own. Give and take…the greatest fucking bastard I know.
…
It’s funny, the process. Come to Hollywood with Hollywood dreams and all you want is a chance…the coveted “foot in the door.” Most people never get one, and 99% of the time…deservedly so.
Mine’s in. I’m 1 person away from anyone in this town. Tom Cruise might be 2, but besides Tommy, anyone else. It’s comforting, calming, cooling. There’s no who, what, when, where, why or how. I only have to worry about being one thing in this entire world…
Fucking remarkable.
And I want you to understand what I’ve understood. I took a break from my script, my “in” to write this. If it were a shit piece, I’d be upstairs, kicking the hell out of Frank, my accountant neighbor due to concerns I let a golden opportunity slide.
Frank is fine. He’s upstairs, probably masturbating to gay porn…getting ready to dream the night away. I didn’t harm a hair on his head.
If it were a shit piece, I’d be a twitchy, panicked, backpedaling fuckrunner. Use your imagination. Just like it sounds.
I ain’t that. So at the end of the day, at the end of it all, is it any surprise that all roads lead to such familiar stomping grounds…
Sweet, coveted uncertainty.
I got a call yesterday. When I hung up, I felt ill…even if it was only for a moment.
In terms of my career, the career I re-located my ass out here for…I really only have two things on my plate. In case you need to be brought up to speed…
1. Wrapping a Script.
2. Swapping jabs with Mickey Mouse house.
That’s it. For the time being, my personal and professional directions are mapped out and tidy. You could say I’m simplifying things…that I need to broaden my perspective. I disagree. Things are good. Things are perfect.
But the call was from Disney. If you’ve been reading, the “girl” I’ve been referring is an exec from the studio. I know it’s difficult to sift. In between the banished ex girlfriends I foolishly re-fall for, the Philippine call girls and my 8-12 hour crushes…the “she” droppings can be a bit much. My separation is the knowledge that this is the one breaking me in.
By now, we have a good repore. Good enough where she calls…or, at least has her assistant call to say they filled MY POSITION. It was the position I was supposed to pitch for “In the New Year.” What’s the date today? January 26th. I had an opportunity that 10,000 people in this town would cut their wrists for…and I let it roll off my back. I flaked…sort of. And I feel a slight awful for it.
This is a town full of cold shoulders…the most locked down industry in the world. There are millions of “wannabes” and only a handful of “ares.” It’s your run of the mill power struggle scenario. Simply swap variables. Vanity for genocide. Narcotic driven economy for…actually, that works on both fronts. As I was saying, those holding power want to keep it. AND, those that have it remember how many times they had to break, mend and re-break their backs to get it.
I don’t understand why they called, again. Or…why they’re so encouraging, again. “Come June, you’ll have a foot up.” It’s not like they owe me anything, again. To them, I should be a nobody (though you and I know considerably better). Then again, she read my 1st(4th) script and said she and another executive really liked it. Hence, my meeting/our relationship. For some reason, I never believed her.
At the very least, if you were curious as to why I wanted to land this thing, your question should be answered. There’s heart there. If anything gets me…that’s it.
And yet the other side of my head knows I’d be better off on my own. Give and take…the greatest fucking bastard I know.
…
It’s funny, the process. Come to Hollywood with Hollywood dreams and all you want is a chance…the coveted “foot in the door.” Most people never get one, and 99% of the time…deservedly so.
Mine’s in. I’m 1 person away from anyone in this town. Tom Cruise might be 2, but besides Tommy, anyone else. It’s comforting, calming, cooling. There’s no who, what, when, where, why or how. I only have to worry about being one thing in this entire world…
Fucking remarkable.
And I want you to understand what I’ve understood. I took a break from my script, my “in” to write this. If it were a shit piece, I’d be upstairs, kicking the hell out of Frank, my accountant neighbor due to concerns I let a golden opportunity slide.
Frank is fine. He’s upstairs, probably masturbating to gay porn…getting ready to dream the night away. I didn’t harm a hair on his head.
If it were a shit piece, I’d be a twitchy, panicked, backpedaling fuckrunner. Use your imagination. Just like it sounds.
I ain’t that. So at the end of the day, at the end of it all, is it any surprise that all roads lead to such familiar stomping grounds…
Sweet, coveted uncertainty.
January 23, 2006
No Lawsuits, Please...
The neighborhood is changing. Link bar stage left says so. I advise you take a look…a listen. Though a bounty of copyrights stand violated, I do fully support I-Tunes. Therefore, I own a clear conscience. How’s yours doin?
One child remains missing. Fabled Bloom 6. I had to track down a pirated copy from Signapore. Crossies, it’s on the way.
It’s nice. Things are calm this week. I’ve been working. You know, small things here and there…trying to tie up loose ends of the Lingerie Bowl before it goes up live on Super Bowl Sunday. Loose ends like finding Dennis Rodman a helicopter that will drop him off on the 50 yard line of the LA Coliseum. If anyone can beat 3500 AND fly a Huey, consider yourself hired. I never pretended this was a “normal” job.
I have a problem. In professional terms, it’s called a “to-do laundry list.” Sorry if I lost anyone. It’s super duper complicated stuff, coordinating production. Can you hear the focus in my words? The clear direction? I have things…concrete things whose fate rest on these sturdy shoulders. Tonight, the burden is life-raping.
Worry not, weary travelers. It wont last. You caught me on a bad day.
…
I took a piss test on Friday. Like I said a few weeks ago…a time will come where I’ll have to shop for sweet new means of an LA paycheck. Once Lingerie Bowl wraps, I’m falling back into another overpaying, slender hour job. I told them Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays would be out of the question. Their response? Welcome aboard.
There’s usually a simple explanation for such a reaction. Someone wants to fuck or get fucked by…you. What? At least out here, we don’t pretend.
…
Turning the corner. Sometimes, I stray from what started this fiasco. Oh, to write for the silver screen. I go through typhoons of shits and giggles in this life. However, you could cut out my eyes and I wouldn’t lose sight of why I’m here…what I’m doing. If it ever seems as if life is getting in the way, realize you’re fortune’s fool before it’s too late. Life IS the way.
I’ll be wrapping my latest foray in a month. Slightly behind schedule, but it should be worth the wait. And I’m not really worried about anything. All of the “daunting” parts of this city and this business have failed to reach me. If they haven’t come yet, they never will.
My last script did exactly what it needed to do. It raised some important brows and in the process, shed layers of my Hollywood virginity. But somewhere along the way, I realized that I do actually have “it.” And the difference between knowing I have “it” and holding “it” in my hand is just a matter of time.
I give you this fair warning because I can feel the infallibility of my future. I’m well on my way to becoming a monster. It’s not until we embrace our capabilities that we understand what it takes to dance with immortality.
Chalk it up…that one’s all mine.
…
Now ease up, Dears. Still trying to find footing. Kid fell hard last week.
One child remains missing. Fabled Bloom 6. I had to track down a pirated copy from Signapore. Crossies, it’s on the way.
It’s nice. Things are calm this week. I’ve been working. You know, small things here and there…trying to tie up loose ends of the Lingerie Bowl before it goes up live on Super Bowl Sunday. Loose ends like finding Dennis Rodman a helicopter that will drop him off on the 50 yard line of the LA Coliseum. If anyone can beat 3500 AND fly a Huey, consider yourself hired. I never pretended this was a “normal” job.
I have a problem. In professional terms, it’s called a “to-do laundry list.” Sorry if I lost anyone. It’s super duper complicated stuff, coordinating production. Can you hear the focus in my words? The clear direction? I have things…concrete things whose fate rest on these sturdy shoulders. Tonight, the burden is life-raping.
Worry not, weary travelers. It wont last. You caught me on a bad day.
…
I took a piss test on Friday. Like I said a few weeks ago…a time will come where I’ll have to shop for sweet new means of an LA paycheck. Once Lingerie Bowl wraps, I’m falling back into another overpaying, slender hour job. I told them Saturdays, Sundays and Mondays would be out of the question. Their response? Welcome aboard.
There’s usually a simple explanation for such a reaction. Someone wants to fuck or get fucked by…you. What? At least out here, we don’t pretend.
…
Turning the corner. Sometimes, I stray from what started this fiasco. Oh, to write for the silver screen. I go through typhoons of shits and giggles in this life. However, you could cut out my eyes and I wouldn’t lose sight of why I’m here…what I’m doing. If it ever seems as if life is getting in the way, realize you’re fortune’s fool before it’s too late. Life IS the way.
I’ll be wrapping my latest foray in a month. Slightly behind schedule, but it should be worth the wait. And I’m not really worried about anything. All of the “daunting” parts of this city and this business have failed to reach me. If they haven’t come yet, they never will.
My last script did exactly what it needed to do. It raised some important brows and in the process, shed layers of my Hollywood virginity. But somewhere along the way, I realized that I do actually have “it.” And the difference between knowing I have “it” and holding “it” in my hand is just a matter of time.
I give you this fair warning because I can feel the infallibility of my future. I’m well on my way to becoming a monster. It’s not until we embrace our capabilities that we understand what it takes to dance with immortality.
Chalk it up…that one’s all mine.
…
Now ease up, Dears. Still trying to find footing. Kid fell hard last week.
January 16, 2006
Ode to a Long Lost...
Someone’s gum is stuck to the chair next to my bed.
It was Friday the 13th. If ever a day flies the red flag, would it not have been that one? I should have seen it coming…
…
I have a feeling this post is going to roll heavy and telling. So if you will, permit me a brief digression in the spirit of easing tension.
If you ever get the urge to chain me down and lock me in a metal cabinet for a duration of time exceeding 10 weeks, the deal I strike is this: Give me 10 songs and I’ll manage. Though I refuse to dish the 10 songs unless you ask, I will confess that I recently found myself a new one. In case you didn’t pick up…that’s fairly high praise. I never lent an ear until a week ago. Shit Happens. In case you haven’t, lend yours when you get the chance.
Arcade Fire – Wake Up
…
Where was I? Friday the 13th.
I don’t much like to talk about it, but I used to have this painful addiction. The sort that can mix and toss pleasure and pain in such a ruthless manner that when it leaves, it leaves you cracked and chipped…broken into thousands of pieces.
My addiction was a she.
And it wasn’t all her fault. I have matured enough to know that in the realm of anything considered to be “normal” life, I am out of my fucking mind.
On Friday the 13th, she was a fog…rolling in and disappearing. So vivid, it very well could have been a dream. I knew the feeling all too well.
My feet are cold and my sleep pattern has suffered a ruthless Blitzkrieg. It takes a lot of work to go from being cynical to…something entirely else in the course of 6 hours. Let’s just say I had a little help from an “old friend.”
On Friday, my head hit pillow at five in the morning…alone, but not really. I was dead tired. Though, when I closed my eyes, I was not transported, lifted or whisked away. I got to hang out with me from 5-7am. Then, from 10am until 5am the next day. It’s not as hot as it sounds.
Let’s jump ahead to Saturday where the last thing I wanted to do on this entire fucking planet was go to Basque for a birthday party. I was sick with something doctors don’t “get.” Terribly fucking ill with something germs have no hand in.
I sucked it up, faked a good face and stayed until 2. Knowing sleep was out of the question, I went to an after hours coke bumping soiree and sat through Wedding Crashers. You’d be surprised how insightful the crew became. My head hit pillow just before the sun came up and I was alone. That “alone” feeling I had all but marvelously forgotten.
Oh, and FYI: If I blew coke, don’t you think I would have skipped that part of the story? Fucking please. In case you were wondering…I’m still me.
…
Sometimes, before I go out, I raise a glass with cronies, “here’s to falling in love for the night.” No one gets it, ever. Probably because I speak in the tonal ballpark of someone steps away from leaping through the window of a skyscraper. More than anything, it’s a joke for hopeless LA cynics who think they’re too good for everyone. Ladies, gentlemen…welcome to my thought process.
In more ways than I could ever succinctly explain, I’ve been bone picking with Cupid. To a man who puts food on his celestial table through the business of love, I’ve been downright disrespectful. On Friday, his vengeance was swift. Dude stuck a shank in my heart and left it in all weekend. I think it was a quarter to 1 when it happened…
Head, heels…you can fill the blanks.
What the fuck was she doing in my city?
…
We spend our lives jumping and catching trains…locked in a never-ending battle.
Come 4 o’clock on this Monday, it’s time to once again jump the train. Years ago, I’d jump and walk away with a broken neck. Mind you, walking becomes quite difficult when one sustains such an injury. These days, my tuck and roll is nearly flawless…allowing me the freedom to jump on and off without sustaining much injury at all.
Care for elaboration on the keyword, “much?” Of the thousands of cracks I earlier spoke...it’s down to a couple hundred. Nothing weeks of therapy couldn’t mend. Right, World?
…
But my tales are never always and only grim. This weekend, I found something that was absolutely necessary. There’s a point on the other side of the tunnel. And it’s this place where for a moment, all of your faults…all the rocks and razors you’ve stumbled across and bled by can somehow become…inconsequential. Because in that moment, you’re both holding a piece of something so haunting and fragile. Beyond and around, there’s endlessly nothing.
How I envy the parts of my past that knew it well.
I know. The sign is blinking, flashing, singing and screaming. It’s jumping out of the ground, trying to bash my face with its aluminum forged by our country’s finest condemned men and women. I know it all too well.
Sometime tomorrow, I’ll snap out of it. I’ll remember that I live in Los Angeles…that it’s time to jump. And even if the chemicals in my head were playing tricks on me, I know the good stuff when it comes. It came…and now it’s leaving. Forever, once again.
Don’t ask me why her gum is still stuck to the chair next to my bed. Or more importantly, why I haven’t thrown it away. I couldn’t tell you.
Okay, strike that. Allow me to steal a quote from paragraph 9…
“I have matured enough to know that in the realm of anything considered to be “normal” life, I am out of my fucking mind.”
Over the past day and a half, a realization has been rolling through my head. Its echoes refuse to stop. They just beat louder and louder and louder…
I’m fucked for the rest of my life. Forever and ever. All because of a she. What do you want me to say?
Oops.
January 09, 2006
Sigh...
I’m supposed to set up a meeting to pitch Mickey Mouse next week. Same studio…yes, again. Second week in January…that’s what my girl said. Though, my interpretation of the invitation was loose…so I am treating it as such. After all, I’m not ready.
Step back. Let me re-phrase. It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m full of soul-lifting, pull masses out of the gutter, tales. It’s just that I’m not ready for them.
Nothing forced will ever be good. Trying to hit my loose deadline next week would at this moment…seem forceful. Until my pitches are hotter than video-phone sex, she wont be hearing my rings. Then again, who’s to say a storm of brilliance doesn’t roll in tonight…in bed…while I fail to sleep.
This week in the trades, Disney got in on some action. It went a little something like…
'Chicken' pair sell Disney on 'Missing' pitch
6 Jan 2006 3:27am EST - By Tatiana Siegel
Chicken Little scribes Ron Friedman and Steve Bencich are reteaming with Walt Disney Pictures for the live-action family comedy The Missing Link. Disney paid mid-six figures for Friedman and Bencich's pitch, which is described as a monkey spy adventure in the vein of The Bourne Identity. Beau Flynn and Tripp Vinson of ContraFilm are producing along with Bryan Brucks, who brought the idea to Flynn and ContraFilm creative executive Gitty Daneshvari. Disney's Karen Glass and Casey Wolfe will oversee for the studio.
…
Did your eyes hear that? A “monkey spy adventure in the vein of Bourne Identity.” That’s what I’m up against. You might say it’s nowhere even in the realm of being up my alley. Or…how perfect?
It’s likely you know me better than I know myself…in THAT sense. Honest.
I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. But lately, I’ve been deep into finishing my “soul searching angels in New York,” piece. At this very moment…my desktop is a digital picture from my last NYC jaunt. Battery Park. Taken from the hurricane deck on the Staten Island Ferry. I’ll never forget the feeling of a city so beautifully bitter.
One of these days, when I’m everything I promised I would be, you’ll look back with a certainty in your whisper and say…of course.
…
Did I mention that it’s Lingerie Bowl season? Yeah…it is. In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, I added a link from this site on the sidebar. I’ve pretty much been working with them since the day I set foot in this town. All of your questions regarding my work can be answered by one of the following responses…
1. Of course.
2. Worse.
It goes down on Pay-Per View at halftime of the Super Bowl. When the Director of Operations takes off for the 14-city bus tour in a week, I have to keep everything in Los Angeles running smooth…whatever that means.
My title for the company has spanned the board. When I first got into town, I straightened the Producer’s garage for a Benny. This summer, I wrote and floor directed their 50k television pilot that got a small offer from E!.
But really, my title should be Human Mapquest. We have 60 girls. Very beautiful. Very self-conscious. Very have lived in LA for much longer than I have and have no idea how to find ANYTHING. When we do photo shoots, hold events or have production days, they all seem to wind up with my cell number. Not funny. After the third pick up, I become quite swift in dropping, “I’m from Chicago…find you a gas station, Smith out.”
And here’s another thing. This town is all about chewing these girls up and spitting ‘em out. There will always be someone to come along that’s more beautiful…or exotic…or younger. Usually, all of the above.
It’s cruel and terrible, but it’s the nature of the beast in this town and in this life. Naturally, the process will break them down in bits and pieces. Over time, it adds up.
Since I’m not a pig, I can say this to you. Or perhaps the “pig” qualifier is that I am saying this to you. But 35 of the 60 girls want to have my children. The rest, I haven’t met. There’s something in my appearance that screams, “life/soul band aid.” Girls looking for that sort of healing usually turn out to be a little fucking bit out of their chain him down and cling, minds.
I got over certain things in this town real quick…real quick. Beautifully flaunting women was one of them. Now, around Lingerie Bowlers…I just pretend like I’m gay. Or, that I have a very serious girlfriend. Of course, in this town…nobody believes the latter.
…
Chronicles of the Sweet Life. That’s what I call these posts, correct? Sometimes, my worries stem from a failure to live up to my end of the deal. This past Friday served as a reminder to my initial reference.
I didn’t “work.” Technically. I woke up at 8 to polish a scene before heading to my cult spin class. Already rough, I know. Did I mention it was sunny and an unseasonably warm 80 degrees? Well, it was. I have a handful of friends in MWF noon spin. It’s like a family. Two of them were going to spend the afternoon by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I agreed to wingman. Now, I can’t really paint the picture of this place to you, but take my word that it’s exquisitely beautiful…elegant, sweet, wonderful. For reasons we don’t need to spend time on, they’re treated like King and Queen every time they go. Though, they’re not together. This will be important later.
Did I mention the entire place is painted pink?
We sat under the sun and drank champagne until the glowing rays cooled. After moving to the Jacuzzi, we ate Fruit Stripe and drank a toast to all our lovelies in the cold Midwest and on the East coast.
I met the Queen out that night in Santa Monica. We left…indiscriminately searching for a Westwood In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out period. Something must be coming. When we got to her place, we allowed our lips a cheek and said goodbye through eyes and smiles.
That was a day…
Every now and then, one comes. Los Angeles has the power to be magic like that. Perhaps in greater frequency than any other crack in this world.
Now, it’s a part of me…that January 6th, 2006.
Step back. Let me re-phrase. It’s not that I’m not ready. I’m full of soul-lifting, pull masses out of the gutter, tales. It’s just that I’m not ready for them.
Nothing forced will ever be good. Trying to hit my loose deadline next week would at this moment…seem forceful. Until my pitches are hotter than video-phone sex, she wont be hearing my rings. Then again, who’s to say a storm of brilliance doesn’t roll in tonight…in bed…while I fail to sleep.
This week in the trades, Disney got in on some action. It went a little something like…
'Chicken' pair sell Disney on 'Missing' pitch
6 Jan 2006 3:27am EST - By Tatiana Siegel
Chicken Little scribes Ron Friedman and Steve Bencich are reteaming with Walt Disney Pictures for the live-action family comedy The Missing Link. Disney paid mid-six figures for Friedman and Bencich's pitch, which is described as a monkey spy adventure in the vein of The Bourne Identity. Beau Flynn and Tripp Vinson of ContraFilm are producing along with Bryan Brucks, who brought the idea to Flynn and ContraFilm creative executive Gitty Daneshvari. Disney's Karen Glass and Casey Wolfe will oversee for the studio.
…
Did your eyes hear that? A “monkey spy adventure in the vein of Bourne Identity.” That’s what I’m up against. You might say it’s nowhere even in the realm of being up my alley. Or…how perfect?
It’s likely you know me better than I know myself…in THAT sense. Honest.
I’ll figure it out sooner rather than later. But lately, I’ve been deep into finishing my “soul searching angels in New York,” piece. At this very moment…my desktop is a digital picture from my last NYC jaunt. Battery Park. Taken from the hurricane deck on the Staten Island Ferry. I’ll never forget the feeling of a city so beautifully bitter.
One of these days, when I’m everything I promised I would be, you’ll look back with a certainty in your whisper and say…of course.
…
Did I mention that it’s Lingerie Bowl season? Yeah…it is. In case you don’t know what I’m talking about, I added a link from this site on the sidebar. I’ve pretty much been working with them since the day I set foot in this town. All of your questions regarding my work can be answered by one of the following responses…
1. Of course.
2. Worse.
It goes down on Pay-Per View at halftime of the Super Bowl. When the Director of Operations takes off for the 14-city bus tour in a week, I have to keep everything in Los Angeles running smooth…whatever that means.
My title for the company has spanned the board. When I first got into town, I straightened the Producer’s garage for a Benny. This summer, I wrote and floor directed their 50k television pilot that got a small offer from E!.
But really, my title should be Human Mapquest. We have 60 girls. Very beautiful. Very self-conscious. Very have lived in LA for much longer than I have and have no idea how to find ANYTHING. When we do photo shoots, hold events or have production days, they all seem to wind up with my cell number. Not funny. After the third pick up, I become quite swift in dropping, “I’m from Chicago…find you a gas station, Smith out.”
And here’s another thing. This town is all about chewing these girls up and spitting ‘em out. There will always be someone to come along that’s more beautiful…or exotic…or younger. Usually, all of the above.
It’s cruel and terrible, but it’s the nature of the beast in this town and in this life. Naturally, the process will break them down in bits and pieces. Over time, it adds up.
Since I’m not a pig, I can say this to you. Or perhaps the “pig” qualifier is that I am saying this to you. But 35 of the 60 girls want to have my children. The rest, I haven’t met. There’s something in my appearance that screams, “life/soul band aid.” Girls looking for that sort of healing usually turn out to be a little fucking bit out of their chain him down and cling, minds.
I got over certain things in this town real quick…real quick. Beautifully flaunting women was one of them. Now, around Lingerie Bowlers…I just pretend like I’m gay. Or, that I have a very serious girlfriend. Of course, in this town…nobody believes the latter.
…
Chronicles of the Sweet Life. That’s what I call these posts, correct? Sometimes, my worries stem from a failure to live up to my end of the deal. This past Friday served as a reminder to my initial reference.
I didn’t “work.” Technically. I woke up at 8 to polish a scene before heading to my cult spin class. Already rough, I know. Did I mention it was sunny and an unseasonably warm 80 degrees? Well, it was. I have a handful of friends in MWF noon spin. It’s like a family. Two of them were going to spend the afternoon by the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I agreed to wingman. Now, I can’t really paint the picture of this place to you, but take my word that it’s exquisitely beautiful…elegant, sweet, wonderful. For reasons we don’t need to spend time on, they’re treated like King and Queen every time they go. Though, they’re not together. This will be important later.
Did I mention the entire place is painted pink?
We sat under the sun and drank champagne until the glowing rays cooled. After moving to the Jacuzzi, we ate Fruit Stripe and drank a toast to all our lovelies in the cold Midwest and on the East coast.
I met the Queen out that night in Santa Monica. We left…indiscriminately searching for a Westwood In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out at 2AM. I don’t eat In and Out period. Something must be coming. When we got to her place, we allowed our lips a cheek and said goodbye through eyes and smiles.
That was a day…
Every now and then, one comes. Los Angeles has the power to be magic like that. Perhaps in greater frequency than any other crack in this world.
Now, it’s a part of me…that January 6th, 2006.
January 01, 2006
Hello There, 2006...
It’s been raining all day in Los Angeles. How fitting. If there’s a city that could afford to be washed clean, it’s this one. Nothing supports a New Years Day comaover like a never-ending rainstorm. New Years Day. Three little words that when strung together…hold such gravitas.
Let me tell you a bit about myself.
…
I believe in love at first sight. That we are well on our way to the end of the world. Psychiatry will take us there.
I believe that people give up too easy. That picking a fight is the greatest form of bonding. Atheists lack vision.
I believe the age of 12 is 94% responsible for how we turn out. That smoke always leads to a fire. Heavy hearts are murdering smiles.
I believe that when a kiss rivals sex…and it can, you’ve found the one. That tragedy creates an artist. There is no affirmation greater than a powerful storm.
I believe that hearts are meant to be broken. That NASCAR deserves be the national pastime of Guatemala. Paul Thomas Anderson is beyond brilliant.
I believe that I am going to live longer than anyone in human history. That there is nothing more admirable than determination. Only fools think hope is fading.
I believe that 100 years from now, your great grandchildren will be reading my words. That arrogance is healthy. Nothing soothes greater than marble painting.
I believe there are lessons to be learned from swallowing sand. That conquering fear leads to exponential growth. The past has its place.
I believe foolish instincts are our greatest life compass. That only fools ignore them. Ronald McDonald was originally designed to haunt children.
…
I also believe…and this is important…that New Years resolutions are the single most sinister thing one can engage in.
When people tell me about their resolutions, I make mental notes. Hint: avoid my mental notes like “Life Goes On” Corky avoids wild card entry into the 2006 Shanghai Underground Deathfight.
In this particular instance, my mental note would go a little something like…passionate about making generous and likely multi-annual contributions to the failure at life fund.
So let me get this straight…you want to change your life???
But…you have to wait until the first of the year to do it? I fail to understand. Apologies. I claim to be a lot of things, but never intelligent. Maybe that’s my boggle.
There is one thing, however…that I do know. Me and excuses, well…let’s just say that if excuses were little children, I’d hammer their fragile spines with a hockey stick. Don’t test me.
In truth, it’s not aggression that overcomes. I worry about the state of things.
How dare we let slip from our conscience what happens when the yellow brick road ceases to lead…
We die.
Let me tell you a bit about myself.
…
I believe in love at first sight. That we are well on our way to the end of the world. Psychiatry will take us there.
I believe that people give up too easy. That picking a fight is the greatest form of bonding. Atheists lack vision.
I believe the age of 12 is 94% responsible for how we turn out. That smoke always leads to a fire. Heavy hearts are murdering smiles.
I believe that when a kiss rivals sex…and it can, you’ve found the one. That tragedy creates an artist. There is no affirmation greater than a powerful storm.
I believe that hearts are meant to be broken. That NASCAR deserves be the national pastime of Guatemala. Paul Thomas Anderson is beyond brilliant.
I believe that I am going to live longer than anyone in human history. That there is nothing more admirable than determination. Only fools think hope is fading.
I believe that 100 years from now, your great grandchildren will be reading my words. That arrogance is healthy. Nothing soothes greater than marble painting.
I believe there are lessons to be learned from swallowing sand. That conquering fear leads to exponential growth. The past has its place.
I believe foolish instincts are our greatest life compass. That only fools ignore them. Ronald McDonald was originally designed to haunt children.
…
I also believe…and this is important…that New Years resolutions are the single most sinister thing one can engage in.
When people tell me about their resolutions, I make mental notes. Hint: avoid my mental notes like “Life Goes On” Corky avoids wild card entry into the 2006 Shanghai Underground Deathfight.
In this particular instance, my mental note would go a little something like…passionate about making generous and likely multi-annual contributions to the failure at life fund.
So let me get this straight…you want to change your life???
But…you have to wait until the first of the year to do it? I fail to understand. Apologies. I claim to be a lot of things, but never intelligent. Maybe that’s my boggle.
There is one thing, however…that I do know. Me and excuses, well…let’s just say that if excuses were little children, I’d hammer their fragile spines with a hockey stick. Don’t test me.
In truth, it’s not aggression that overcomes. I worry about the state of things.
How dare we let slip from our conscience what happens when the yellow brick road ceases to lead…
We die.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
